


The Five Times Minho Almost Gave Newt Flowers and the One Time He Actually Did

by Smontheye



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Fistfight, Flowers, Fluff, For Some Reason The Glade Had Flowers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Thomas Era, Protectiveness, Spoilers for The Death Cure, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smontheye/pseuds/Smontheye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, Minho could just confess his undying love to Newt over Frypan’s latest dinner concoction one day, but some disagreeable part of him wanted to start (well, try to start) the relationship on a more romantic note. </p><p>(In which Minho and Newt get together, but not without a lot of pain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five Times Minho Almost Gave Newt Flowers and the One Time He Actually Did

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I associate Minewt with flowers. Just a warning, this has WAY more angst than the title and summary suggest. Dave, by the way, is technically real character, though the only thing that happens to him in the books is he’s killed by a Griever. Also, let me know what you think! I’m always trying to churn out better fics, so feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Edit 1/8/15: So I'm an idiot and thought one of the Medjacks' names was Jack instead of Jeff. It's changed now. Sorry bout that.

Minho was pretty sure he was fantastic at wooing people before he lost his memories.

He didn’t have actual proof of it, considering how thoroughly every Glader’s memories were wiped, but he knew from brief glances into the dingy mirror of the bathroom in the Homestead that he was decently attractive and very athletic. Obviously, he could never be as handsome as Newt, whose dark brown eyes and cute, upturned nose made the blond boy look like some Greek forest spirit, even covered in grime and sweat from a day of running. Minho also wasn’t exactly a sweet, considerate person, but he definitely had a good sense of humor, if Newt’s lovely laughs were anything to go by.

But God knows (or at least all the beetle blades know) he’s taken every opportunity to make Newt laugh. Yet, the other boy, his best friend since they entered the Glade nearly a year ago, was still just that: his friend.

Of course, Minho could just confess his undying love to Newt over Frypan’s latest dinner concoction one day, but some disagreeable part of him wanted to start (well, try to start) the relationship on a more romantic note.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, after Minho finished wolfing down his lunch sitting against a wall deep in the Maze, that inspiration struck. At first glance, the vines on the wall across where he was sitting were just as thick, menacing, and unwieldy as the rest of the place. Yet, under close inspection, he noticed that parts of the plants were adorned by little white flowers, smaller than his pinky nail.

It wasn’t the best idea ever, but it was something. Any requests for heart-shaped balloons or chocolate would have to pass through Admiral General Alby, and Minho didn’t need to do that kind of explaining to anyone but Newt. Besides, Minho once stumbled onto a corner of the Deadheads where a pretty mix of good-sized, round yellow flowers and slightly bristly purple ones grew. Those would work.

* * *

 

1.

Take One of Minho’s Bring Him Flowers plan occurred on a rare day both he and Newt had a break from running. Minho had switched out with Nick because the Leader of the Gladers wanted to get away from squabbling Keepers. (“I need to let loose some energy or I'll go shucking crazy,” Nick told him, looking harried. “Who even cares whether the Homestead needs to be repainted?”) Meanwhile, Newt had been convinced by his current trainee, Ben, to let him run their section alone for the day. (“He's basically done training,” Newt said, sounding uncharacteristically like a proud parent. It was sweet. “All of us’ll have more break days from now on.”)

Around mid-morning, Minho found Newt sitting at a picnic table outside the Kitchen. He was hunched over a pad of light yellow paper, which Minho recognized as Alby’s record-keeping notebook. Despite having a break day, the all-responsible Keeper of the Runners woke up at the usual time for Gladers: the moment the sun permitted work to be done. Minho could not say the same for himself, considering he still wore a bedhead. And, _ugh_ , had a headache from oversleeping.

“Good morning,” Newt said, giving Minho a smile as he sat down heavily across from him. “You look like klunk.”

“Thanks for always brightening my day.” Minho replied sarcastically and stole Newt’s water bottle. He realized wryly that those words were actually true. Even now, it felt good watching Newt chew his lip as he mulled over Alby’s list of supplies. “Slept in. I _feel_ like klunk,” he admitted, rubbing his temples before draining half the bottle’s contents.

“And whose bloody fault is that?” Newt was clearly holding back a laugh, which was a shame because Minho liked that sound even at his expense.

“Yeah, well, blame me for not wanting to wake up.”

At those words, Newt's expression flickered briefly from teasing to another, more somber emotion. It happened so quickly that Minho wondered if his headache made him imagine it. Then, Newt flicked a lock of golden hair out of his eyes. The movement was startlingly and distractingly feminine.

“Sorry, Minho.” To Minho’s surprise, Newt’s tone was concerned. Before he could ask Newt what he was sorry for, Minho felt fingers on his, and he looked down to see Newt pull Minho’s hand into his own and pinch the flesh between Minho’s thumb and palm. The pressure started light but quickly increased to borderline painful. “I _do_ blame you for having klunk for self-control.”

“Ow, what're ya doing?” Minho didn't pull his hand away.

“Helping that headache.” Newt sounded impatient, but his voice held an unusual undertone of shyness.

“How’s pinching my hand s'posed to help my shucking head?" Minho noticed with some pleasure that his hand was bigger than Newt’s and flexed his palm in the other boy’s grip.

“There's a pressure point there,” Newt replied, digging his fingers with more force into Minho's hand. “If you press hard on it, your headache goes away.” He narrowed his eyes as if trying to remember something. It was the same expression many Gladers wore when trying to uncover wiped memories. “I think.”

“I’m sure you do.” Minho rolled his eyes. He couldn’t tell whether his headache was actually going away or the pain in his hand was just distracting from it. Either way, he didn’t mind Newt holding his hand for a bit longer.

“Is it working?” Newt ignored the comment and studied him. His normally dark brown eyes looked chocolate in the sunlight.

“A little? Shuck, I can’t tell.” Minho felt warm and suddenly pulled his hand away, remembering why he approached Newt in the first place. “Anyway, are you too busy sucking up to the Admiral?” He gestured at Alby’s notebook. “I want to show you something.”

Newt shrugged, tucking the pad under his arm and standing up. “The new supplies come in more than a week, anyway.” He rolled his shoulders, and Minho enjoyed watching the movement under Newt's thin shirt. “I don’t see how Alby can do this every day.”

“I don’t want to see.” Minho responded impatiently. "C’mon then, shuckface.” He led the way.

“You’re not gonna pull some slinthead prank on me, are ya?” Newt commented warily when it became clear Minho was leading him to the Deadheads.

Minho opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the familiar blaring of an alarm. He whipped his head around to glare in the direction of the Box, which was now emitting a head-searing screeching noise. Despite the repulsive sound, Gladers were making their way to it, converging like ants on a piece of candy.

“A Greenie’s on the way! I bloody forgot it was today!” Newt shouted over the sound of the alarm.

“Since when’d you turn into Alby?” Minho felt a stab of irritation as Newt jogged toward the Box. He resisted the urge to grab blond boy by the arm and drag him to the Deadheads anyway. Instead, he ran after Newt. They shouldered their way through the crowd of boys surrounding the Box and reached Alby at the edge just in time to see it open.

No one was surprised at the contents. A short boy of around fourteen with a plain-looking face and tawny buzzed hair was helped out of the Box by Newt. The Newbie was crying as he emerged. When the boy bumped into him and almost knocked them both into the Box, Minho told him to slim it and suck it up. He earned a subtle look of reproach from Newt.

There was a short discussion before it was decided that Alby was too busy taking on Nick’s duties to give the Greenie the Tour and explain the rules. So, Newt would do it instead. He had temporarily assumed Alby’s job as second-in-command that day anyways.

Minho’s headache, which had disappeared temporarily while he was with Newt, came back full blast. It felt like a beetle blade was scampering in his skull, knocking things over and lighting everything up in red. Minho grabbed a bagged lunch from an amused-looking Frypan and excused himself to the Map Room for the rest of the day. He didn’t see Newt or the Greenie again until dinner.

When Minho, neck aching from bending over maps all day, plopped down next to Newt that evening, the Greenie reached out a hand and introduced himself as “Dave.”

“Klunk off, Greenie.” Minho snapped, voice and words full of acid. The newest addition to the Glade flinched and stared at him, eyes wide. No one ever asked to be dropped into the Glade, and it was wrong to blame the Newbie for unintentionally stealing his day with Newt. But Minho found he couldn’t control himself.

“For the love, be nice, Minho.” Newt scolded. It was the way the Keeper talked to Runners, not the way Newt talked to Minho. Turning to Dave the Newbie, Newt sighed, “Minho’s like that to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

“Sorry,” Minho added, unconvincingly apologetic.

* * *

 

2.

The next day, Minho was determined follow through with his plan and give Newt flowers and his confession.

He emerged from the Maze early—more than two hours before the closing of the Doors. He took a brief glance around to ascertain none of the other Runners were back yet before heading to the Map Room. Still slightly out of breath, he quickly spun the handle and yanked the metal door open. Once inside, he grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and drew the day’s map rapidly, eyeballing straight lines instead of using a ruler. The process took only an hour instead of the usual few hours Runners took to sketch their maps from memory, and Minho was soon out of the Map Room and jogging across the Glade.

Most of the runners were not back yet, including Newt. However, as he jogged along the West Wall, a tall figure emerged from the Door that Minho recognized as Ben. Minho was tempted to break out in a run to avoid him altogether but decided that would warrant questions from Newt's former trainee. He gave Ben a wave, hoping that would suffice as interaction.

“Hey Minho, you're back early too?” Ben asked casually. Minho nodded and continued his route toward the Deadheads. The other boy stepped in front of him, preventing passage. “You’re going the wrong way—you already finished drawing?” Ben sounded surprised and disbelieving.

“Yeah, slinthead.” Minho replied impatiently, unsuccessfully trying to sidestep. “What's it to you?”

Ben frowned, and Minho glanced at the break in North Wall where Newt would come out of the Maze soon. He needed to get those flowers.

“How— ” Ben looked suspicious now. “It takes hours to draw a good map.”

“I’m fast.” Minho couldn’t help giving Ben a cocky grin. It was true. If he was good at anything, it was Running. Minho and Newt were among the first Gladers to begin exploring the Maze and mapping it almost a year ago. Minho remembered how rash he was back then. Newt was one of the few Gladers who grinned rather than wilted or shied away at Minho’s sarcastic, disparaging comments and the only one willing to go into the Maze with Minho after George died in it. It was probably only because of Newt that Minho hadn’t turned into Griever chow long ago. Really, Minho owed the beautiful blond boy more than he would ever know. And flowers were as good a place to start as any. Speaking of which—

“You know,” Ben continued a lecture Minho missed the first part of. “Running the Maze is the most important thing we do, ’cause it’s our only hope of getting out. Runners are the best of the best and they have to take their job seriously.”

Minho saw where this was going and felt a rising spark of anger in his chest. “What’re you implying?”

“Nothing,” Ben said quickly. “Just remember that keeping the order is how things work here. Order.” He repeated. Now, Minho was enraged. Who did the shucking trainee think he was, parroting Newt’s Newbie speech to him? Compared to Minho, Ben was a Greenie.

“Shut your hole, shank.” Minho clenched his fists. “You don't know anything.”

“I’m just sayin’ you ought to be more careful. Our job’s too important to be slacking off.” Ben said calmly, and Minho felt his anger boil over. Then, Minho felt a burst of painful force on his knuckles, and Ben was staggering back, holding his cheek.  Blood dribbled slowly out at the corner of Ben’s mouth where he cut his lip on his teeth from the force of Minho's punch. “What the shucking hell?” Minho noticed that five months after coming out of the Box, Ben still used Glader words like they were unfamiliar.

Then, Minho was staggering back himself at the force of Ben’s responding punch. He would have a black eye the next day, but he was too riled up to think of consequences. He pulled his fist back and landed another blow, this time to Ben’s stomach. He watched with satisfaction as Ben doubled over. But Minho evidently didn’t give Ben enough credit because the other boy recovered rapidly and threw another punch. This time, it was a glancing blow to his cheek, and Minho cut his tongue on his teeth at its force. He spit blood onto the grass and lunged forward, turning the fight into a wrestling match.

“Freakin’ Newbies.” Minho grunted, trying to dodge and land punches simultaneously. Ben managed to land a few more hits on Minho, once barely missing his nose.

“Minho!” An alarmed voice shouted from not far behind him. Arms wrapped around Minho's waist, and he instinctively elbowed whoever was trying to restrain him. That someone grunted and winced when the elbow hit soft flesh. “Bloody hell—Alby! Help!”

That voice...

Suddenly, Minho froze and allowed himself to be pulled away. Alby’s dark arms appeared around Ben, and just like that the two were separated. Minho and Ben were panting, and Newt seemed slightly winded. Realizing why, Minho spun around quickly. Newt’s arms around his waist loosened and let go.

“Shuck, you okay Newt?” Minho demanded, pulling Newt close and smoothing a hand lightly across his ribs. “Sorry, I didn't—”

“Do you have klunk for brains?” Newt pulled away from him when Minho tried to examine the damage he may have done to his friend. Newt’s brown eyes darted back and forth between Minho and Ben. “What happened?”

“Minho punched me.” Ben answered, voice calm in a way that made Minho want to hit him again. “And it turned into a fight.”

“That slinthead called me a slacker,” Minho retorted. Ben opened his mouth to protest, but Alby interrupted him.

“So he had it coming?”

“Yes.”

“No, I was just telling you to be more diligent with your job—”

“What do you know, _trainee_?”

“Newt said—”

“Oh, it’s already shucking happened and over with!” Newt broke in, exasperated. “Save it for the bloody Gathering.”

“Right,” Alby said. “I’ll let Nick know to call one. Newt, take these two slintheads to see the Med-jacks. Get yourself checked too.” The second-in-command paused. “If they start fightin’ again, feel free to knock them both out.”

Ben and Minho were placed in separate rooms. Newt had rolled his eyes as he told them that it was a measure of caution. As Clint checked and dealt with Ben’s injuries, Newt sat next to Minho on the room’s small cot, one of the few beds in the Glade. Newt was staring at the wall across them, refusing eye contact. Minho noticed he was still wearing his Runner pack.

“Sorry I hit you.”

“S’okay. It was an accident.” Newt sounded disappointed. But instead of a lecture on self-control, Newt's next words to Minho dripped with worry. “Where are you hurt?”

“What're you, a Med-jack?” Minho answered in surprise and then shrugged. “I’ll have a klunkin’ black eye, but that's about it.” He was quite proud to think that Ben might be nursing a broken nose. Another sarcastic comment was lost in his throat when Newt touched the corner of Minho’s mouth with those long, slender fingers.

“What about your mouth? There’s blood.” Newt was much closer now, and Minho couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Newt’s feathery golden eyelashes moved with his gaze as he studied Minho. Newt frowned at the blood that came away onto his fingers. “It's still bleeding.”

“Just a cut.” Minho replied. He was glad Newt moved his hand away, because the urge to kiss those fingers was overwhelming, and he wasn’t about to make a move on Newt without giving him a decent bunch of flowers, goddamnit. Then, Newt hesitated, as if looking for a good way to phrase what he was about to say.

“Please, Minho...Don’t do it again.” Newt’s voice was suddenly so plaintive that Minho looked sharply into his eyes.

“Do what, shank?” He demanded, feeling a bubble of frustration that Newt thought things were that simple. “Get into a fight? Ben was asking for it. The Creators shucking planned it, for all we know.”

That was the first time Minho said something that made Newt flinch. He instantly regretted it, and he barely resisted taking Newt's hand.

“Get hurt.” Newt snapped. “I bloody hate seeing you get hurt.”

“Get used to it.” Minho retorted. “Welcome to the damn Glade.” Inwardly, he kicked himself. Why couldn't he just reassure Newt that he’ll be careful like a decent person instead of snapping back? If Minho ever got him those flowers and Newt ended up rejecting him, Minho would happily accept it.  Determined to apologize, Minho opened his mouth.

“That's true. I’m sorry.” Newt interrupted Minho’s apology with his own, looking deflated. The blond boy’s shoulders slumped, and Newt looked painfully small, devoid of the levelheaded authority he radiated when other Gladers were present. Minho felt the urge to wrap an arm around him.

“I’ll try to be careful.” Minho added anyway, and Newt nodded. The air between them softened, and Minho felt a weight he didn’t realize was there lift off of him.

They sat together silently on the cot for a minute. Then, the door opened, and Clint emerged. He addressed Newt.

“Ben's got nothing broken. Just a lot of bruising. He’ll be well enough to do normal Runner duties tomorrow.” Clint sounded professional. “Surprising, considering how bloody his nose was.” He added offhandedly.

Minho watched in guilt and jealousy as Newt lifted his shirt up to show the purple bruise where Minho had elbowed him to Clint for inspection. When Clint pressed a hand lightly onto the injury, Newt winced and Minho couldn’t smother a twitch.

“Nothing broken,” Clint confirmed. “It’ll be sore, but we have a salve for that.” Then, Minho endured the agonizing ordeal of watching Clint teach Newt how to apply the creamy ointment. He decided that he never wanted anyone except himself slowly rubbing anything into Newt’s lovely pale skin.

“Well, good that,” Newt said once the ordeal was over. He stood up and tucked a lock of fair hair behind his ear. Not long enough for the motion, the strands fell out of place almost immediately. “I’ve got to go draw my map now. See you shucks at dinner.”

Minho watched the elegant, narrow lines of Newt’s back as he retreated from the room.

* * *

 

3.

Fistfights were not uncommon in the Glade, considering the place was basically a large, enclosed field inhabited by teenage boys. A quick Gathering convened after dinner, and it was determined that Minho would spend the next day in the Slammer as punishment for starting a fight and almost breaking Ben's nose. Meanwhile, for returning the punch and giving Minho a black eye, Ben lost his break day and would run Minho’s section of the Maze.

So, Minho sat in the Slammer, his mind flashing between thinking of ways to sneak out and worrying that the chair supporting him was going to crumble into dust at any time. And he thought of Newt. When they weren’t occupied by running, his thoughts rarely strayed far from the blond boy these days, probably anticipating his imminent confession.

That is, if the universe (or Creators, whoever) were going to let him get those flowers. He imagined touching soft golden hair and stroking smooth pale skin. Newt would smile at him and touch him back, and Minho could almost feel those light fingers tracing his face and neck and chest. In a way, it was nice to be stuck in the Slammer. He could let his mind wander to things that weren't passages and patterns and escape.

In all other ways, it was a nightmare of boredom. By noon, Minho was prepared to tear his hair out just for something to do. Alby brought him lunch but left immediately after, dodging Minho’s desperate attempt at conversation. He found himself watching the window, wishing for Newt to appear even though it was too early and the other boy was definitely still out in the Maze.

In one of his bouts of studying the barred window for a possible escape route, Minho noticed little white specks on the thorny bushes outside the Slammer. The chair creaked dangerously when he got up to examine them.

They were flowers. Like the ones on the vines of the Maze, except a little larger. Minho reached between the bars to pluck one. He rolled the short, thorn-less part of the stem in his fingers and wondered whether it was worth giving to Newt, who promised to be the one to bring him dinner. It certainly would speed up the whole confession process, but Minho didn't want to be half-hearted. No, he needed best flowers in the Glade because Newt deserved the best.

He was still twiddling with the little white flower when he heard Newt's familiar, rhythmic steps approach. Tossing the now bruised flower into the corner, Minho rose from the chair again. A loud crack came from the chair and Minho looked down in time to see the ornate foot of one leg break splinter off. He swore loudly.

“What did the bloody chair do to deserve that?” Newt's voice came in, light and amused. A moment later, Newt reached the window and leaned forward against its bars on one arm, slender fingers wrapping loosely around the dark metal. His other hand held a plate of bread and cheese.

“It exists.” Minho muttered.

“What was that?” Newt’s smile got wider, and Minho knew that the other boy had heard him anyways.

“Are you gonna give me that food, slinthead?” Minho was now leaning against the bars the same way Newt was. Their fingers and forearms touched. He smiled back at Newt, trying to look pleading and predatory at the same time.

“Not if you’re gonna be a bloody arse about it.” Newt pulled the plate just out of reach when Minho lunged for it with an arm between the bars. Newt turned his head away quickly and Minho suspected (hoped) he was hiding a blush.

“You wouldn’t let this handsome face starve, would you?” Minho widened his eyes and subtly jutted out his bottom lip. Newt stuck his cute, pink tongue out at Minho, who couldn’t help staring at it.

Newt tried to balance the plate on the thorny bush outside the Slammer window, but the branches weren't thick enough to hold its weight. He frowned. “I’ll have to pass it through to you.”

Minho watched raptly as Newt shifted his slender frame to lean more fully over the shrub. Newt’s build wasn’t exactly feminine, but there was something elegant about the curve of his back that his narrow build only accentuated.

As the other boy broke the chunk of bread into two, Minho wanted to run his hands over the ridges of Newt’s spine and cup his hands around Newt’s waist. He wanted to kiss the pale line of Newt’s throat, check if it was as smooth on his tongue as it looked. He wanted those pink lips to move against his and part so he could flick his tongue inside Newt’s mouth. He wanted to touch those slimly muscled thighs and pull them against his waist.

Minho shifted uncomfortably, making a mental note to jerk off more often. He felt relief that concrete blocked his lower half.

* * *

 

4.

“...heard a fight broke out between two Runners. What do ya think happened?”

“It was Minho and Ben. Heard they barely got punished.”

“Yeah, Newt’s too soft to be the Keeper. Now we know he can’t hold the Runners in line.”

The two Gladers sitting with heads close at the picnic table outside the Kitchen quieted as Minho passed them. If they weren’t watching Minho so warily as he passed, he would have knocked their heads together. Instead, he concentrated his disdain into a single glare and quickened his path towards the Deadheads, reasoning that the faster he got away, the less likely he would to turn back and earn himself another day in the Slammer.

Most Gladers avoided the thick copse of trees taking up a whole corner of the Glade. Nick had once considered appointing a crew of boys to make something useful out of the Deadheads, but no one was eager to take the job. Unlike some Greenies, Minho knew it wasn’t haunted, but the sight of the graves of boys he knew and once ate and slept next to ground up something agonizingly sore in him.

But greater than the pain of the past was his desire to woo Newt. Minho ignored the unusual cold pit in his stomach as he wove through the growing shadows under the dimming sky.

By the time he reached the clearing, it was dark enough that Minho had to whip out a flashlight from his Runner pack.  The field of flowers that interrupted the Deadheads formed an unusual, small hill at the middle, high enough that the flowers were silhouetted against the sky, which now had faded to a dark lavender color. Stars glinted coldly above, and Minho reflected that the stars never moved in the Glade, just like the crescent moon never waxed or waned.

Though it always looked the same, the place felt surreal, like Minho had entered another world. Even the flickering red lights of beetle blades were absent from his peripheral vision.  The air, cooler in the dark, felt impossibly weightless Minho’s lungs.

Then, his gaze met the top of the hill and his breath really disappeared.

Unmistakable to Minho were the lines of Newt’s arms, torso, and legs as they reclined, half submerged in the flowers. The profile of Newt’s face was tilted toward the sky, but as Minho drew closer he noticed that Newt’s surprisingly long eyelashes were laid against his cheek—the other boy’s eyes were closed.

“Newt,” Minho called out softly, trying not to scare him. Nonetheless, Newt startled and sat up straight. “What are you doing here?” Minho asked, unable to look away from Newt’s wide-eyed gaze. Newt gaped at Minho for a moment and frowned.

“You’re here too.” Though it was obvious he was trying to sound stern, Newt’s voice was as breathless as Minho felt. In the dim light, Newt’s pale skin glowed. He didn’t elaborate on his answer.

“What’s wrong?” With a spark of guilt, Minho remembered Alby asking where Newt was after dinner, and, _shucking hell_ , Minho had been too focused on the flowers, on composing his confession, to think to look for him. The bitterness of self-hatred rose in Minho’s throat. If something was wrong, Newt was supposed to go to Minho, or maybe Alby, but not the Deadheads.  “Talk to me, Newt.” Minho put a hand on Newt’s shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Newt said, eyes focusing on the blades of grass that sprung up between his fingers as he clenched them in the ground. “I wanted some bloody time alone’s all.”

An unpleasant understanding hit Minho. The boys of the Glade all dealt with their predicament—the realization that they were stuck in a fathomless Maze—differently. It was arrogant of him to think that Newt, in all his beauty and cleverness and kindness, was untouchable.  Minho nodded, though Newt was looking away.

“Can I stay?” At the blond boy’s small nod, Minho sat cross-legged, one knee touching Newt’s thigh. Newt wrapped his arms around his knees and tilted his head back again, this time facing the dark, glittering sky with open eyes. For a long, frozen moment, Newt watched the sky and Minho watched Newt. 

“I had a dream the other day about green hills.” Newt interrupted the silence. His voice was cracked, raw, like he was on the verge of crying or screaming or both. “They went on as far as I could see, no fences or anything. Just grass, trees, and bushes.”

 “When we escape,” Minho declared, tone thick with determination. “We’ll go anywhere you want. It’s only what you deserve.” Newt’s eyes flickered towards Minho’s face.  A smile tugged at the corners of Newt’s lips, and he let himself fall backwards, lying flat on his back and half submerged in flowers. Minho followed suit.

“You’re too bloody good for me.” Newt turned so he was lying on his side, facing Minho.  Their faces were inches away from each other, and Minho could feel Newt’s breath on his mouth, whispering out of the Newt’s slightly parted lips.

“They can’t keep us here forever, shank.”

What motivated Minho to do what he did next he could not explain in an eternity. It took so little effort to reach out and curl a hand around Newt’s pretty, narrow face and even less effort to tug Newt closer, other hand wrapped around the indent of Newt’s waist. Their lips touched a split second before their chests did.

The kiss was sloppy and desperate. Minho flinched slightly at the touch of Newt’s cold fingers to the back of his neck and pulled the other boy even tighter against him.  Without breaking their lips apart, Minho slid his hands down to grip Newt’s hips and rolled them so that Newt rested on top of Minho, their chests matching up. He felt Newt lick into his mouth and try to suck on his tongue. Clever fingers found their way to the crotch of Minho’s pants and worked at a button there.

Minho pulled away, or rather, he pushed Newt back. Newt was startlingly light. The movement elicited a small noise of protest from the blond boy.

“I’ve waited shuckin’ forever for this.” Minho breathed into the small space between their lips. “But—”

“But?” The way Newt tilted his head in confusion from above Minho was comically cute.

“You deserve better.” Minho wasn’t sure he wanted Newt this way, when he was only moments ago so vulnerable. “Better than right now.” Through where their chests were plastered together, he could feel a very fine trembling coming from the other boy. Minho wanted to press them even more impossibly close together, so that the light quivers running through Newt’s body could cease as it drew warmth and stillness with Minho’s.

“You keep on saying that.” Newt replied, narrowing his eyes. As if determined to end the conversation, the blond boy leaned down trying to continue the kiss, but Minho gripped Newt’s face with both hands, holding him still. He looked fixedly into those wide brown eyes.

“Because it’s true.” Minho pressed their foreheads together. Newt took a breath and sat up. Minho tried to ignore the fact that Newt’s thighs were now straddling his. There were only a few layers of fabric separating them.

“Minho—”

“We’ll get out, and you’ll be happy. I swear it. For now, you’re stuck with me.” Minho took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “We’re stuck together here.”

“Minho,” Newt whispered, the sound barely audible yet infinitely loud. He was tracing suspiciously maze-like, geometric patterns onto Minho’s chest. It was so distracting Minho almost forgot to breathe. “How could you ever think I’d mind that?”

Minho wanted to respond, to refuse again, but at the way Newt leaned forward, ground their hips together, and snuck a hand up to open Minho’s button-up shirt, Minho decided he didn’t care. Newt kept whispering sweet-sounding, reassuring words in his ear, and Minho let his hands roam Newt’s waist, under his shirt, across the dimples of his lower back, and lower, where he’d only dreamed of touching him.

Fittingly, the night felt like it should have happened in a dream. The moment was beautiful. The freckled lines of Newt’s shoulders, highlighted by the light of the moon, were beautiful.  It was hard, even painful, for Minho to decide whether his fear that the beauty would fade if it lasted forever was greater than his desire for it to never end.

The rest of the night was beautiful, and for the first time in almost a year, Minho felt nothing except safe and happy.

* * *

 

5.

He woke up alone in the middle of the Deadheads surrounded by slightly squished flower buds and broken stems.

If he didn’t notice the slight limp in Newt’s step at breakfast or the other boy’s unwillingness to sit on hard surfaces, Minho would have believed that the night before with Newt didn’t happen at all.

If Newt didn’t glance subtly, a slight smirk in place, at Minho with wide brown eyes when lying to Alby about why he walked strangely, he would have believed he had reason to regret the night before.

If Newt gave a single, merest hint at what he planned to do, what he would try to do that day, Minho would have held onto him all that night, all next day, and for uncountable days after that. Newt would never leave Minho’s arms.

Instead, as the Keeper of the Runners had his usual morning meeting with Nick and Alby so the three highest ranked in the Glade could discuss whatever important thing that needed to be discussed, Minho ate breakfast in a happy, lovestruck daze.

At this point, flowers were not necessary, but Minho was too stubborn to abandon the idea that had so fixated him for the past week. Minho had seen Newt’s face light up in delight, his fine-boned hands wrapping around slightly fuzzy green stems, too many times in his imagination to abandon the plan. Newt had looked so natural, so lovely lying under Minho on a bed of flowers the night before.

On a rush of energy that could only belong to someone hopelessly in love, Minho ran the Maze faster than he ever had before. Unlike the last time, Minho drew his map carefully. If there were messy maps, Newt would be blamed for not keeping the Runners disciplined, and Minho regretted not thinking of that before.

This time, Ben only cast him a look of disapproval when Minho jogged past him towards the Deadheads. Minho, who was in a good mood, ignored him.

The flowers, whose purples and yellows had glowed silver in the unchanging moonlight the night before, looked completely different in the sun. The sight of the flattened patch where he and Newt had spent the night sent a heady surge of pleasure through him.

Minho sifted through the flowers, absorbed in the task of finding the ones with the brightest petals and longest stems. For a ridiculous moment, he worried over whether Newt would like the ratio of yellow to purple he had. By the time Minho tucked the bouquet under his arm and jogged out of the Deadheads, a glance at his watch told him the Doors were minutes from closing.

Before he came in view of the Door to Newt’s section, he heard shouting. Ben dashed past him from that direction, a blur of light blond hair.

“What’s going on!” Minho shouted at him.

“Newt’s hurt.” Ben replied without glancing back or slowing down. By the time Minho comprehended the words, the other Runner was yanking open the door to the Homestead, calling the names of the Med-jacks. “Clint! Jeff!”

Minho dropped the flowers and his runner pack and ran as if flying to the Door, heart pounding. A small crowd of Gladers were gathered in a semicircle feet away from the Door entrance, which was slowly becoming more narrow. But all eyes were not on the closing Door; they were on the figure lying a few feet away from it. As he shouldered through the boys, Minho recognized Alby, his face painted with worry and alarm, leaning over Newt. He was saying something to Newt, and then he was addressing Minho, but Minho didn’t hear the words.

All he could see was Newt. In horror, Minho saw his face contorting in pain, eyes squeezed closed as if he was trying to cut off all of his senses. Minho didn’t need to be a Med-jack to know Newt’s left leg was broken, twisted impossibly out to the side. What Minho could see of Newt’s skin was covered in uncountable scratches, many seeping with blood. A trail of blood led from Newt to the closed doors. Then, everyone was flinching away from Minho, and he was vaguely aware of having screamed Newt’s name. He tried to reach Newt, but someone was grabbing his arm, shoving him back.

“Don’t touch him!” Alby called out sternly, and Minho shifted his stance, ready to shove back. But before he could start to shake Alby off, two boys grabbed onto him and pulled him away, away from Newt. He turned his head to see Ben and Nick.

“Minho—” Newt opened his eyes, and it physically hurt Minho to see they were bloodshot and red. They made eye contact for a brief, terrible moment before Clint’s back blocked the way. Minho tried unsuccessfully to twist away from the arms holding him back. He tried again with more force when he heard Newt’s gasp of pain as he was lifted on the Med-jacks’ makeshift stretcher.

“Let me go, slintheads!” Minho thrust an elbow at Ben.

“Calm down, shuckface.” Nick said evenly, though Minho could hear tightness and worry in his voice. “Let the Med-jacks work for now. You’ll only get in the way.”

Eyes glued to the stretcher being carried toward the Homestead, Minho took several deep breaths and tried to relax his stance. “Okay, I’m calm. Let me go now.” Nick hesitated and nodded at Ben, and both boys released Minho’s arms.

Minho bolted to the stretcher as quickly as he could. Nick and Ben were hard on his heels, but Minho wasn’t a senior Runner for nothing. Afraid of bumping into the stretcher and jostling Newt, he slowed significantly as he reached the procession. “Newt!”

Newt tried to sit up but was quickly scolded and pushed back down by Clint.

“Minho, I’m sorry,” Newt groaned. His body was trying to curl in on itself from pain, and Minho wanted to smash something. The beautiful face Minho spent so much time secretly studying was pale and streaked with sweat, tears, dirt, and blood. “Go away.”

“What do you mean?” He demanded. Ben and Nick had now caught up to Minho, and he had to struggle against them to stay with Newt. Minho wanted to cry from confusion and frustration even though he hadn’t cried for as long as he could remember. Then, the strong grips on his arms dragged him away. Minho’s heels tore up the grass in his resistance. If Newt reacted to the shouted question, it wasn’t verbally.

Ben and Nick didn’t let him go until the Med-jacks had taken Newt into the Homestead and the door to the building was bolted from the inside. Newt’s former trainee suggested putting Minho into the Slammer for extra security and as punishment for disobeying the Leader, but Nick refused, tone full of pity.

“That’s not necessary. Right now, we need to calm the commotion and get the rest of everyone back on routine and eating dinner.”

Instead of joining the other Gladers, Minho sat outside the Homestead on the wooden, peeling porch.

“If you’re not gonna eat, will you go get me and Clint something?” Minho jolted and looked up to see Jeff emerging from the door. The words were light, but Jeff’s face was drawn with stress. He had bags under his eyes and his face, which couldn’t be older than seventeen, belonged to a soldier that had seen too many battles.

 “Why the hell do you look so shucking worried?” Minho nearly shouted at Jeff. The image of Newt's pained, sweat-streaked face coursed through his mind and burned like acid. “It’s just a fucking broken leg, right? He’ll heal, right?” His pitch grew increasingly desperate. Jeff only wore that face when a boy was in critical condition. It was a pale mask, as if part of Jeff was dying with his patient.

The Med-jack shook his head, eyes on Minho filled with pity. “It’s a messy break. We’re afraid part of the bone’s splintered and entered his bloodstream. If that’s the case, we—” Jeff paused, hesitating before continuing. “We won’t have the means to save him.”

“Do you mean he might die!” The words, phrased as a question, were screamed hoarsely. Minho wanted to barge into the Homestead and rip Newt out of it. He wanted to smash up the Maze walls. He wanted to kill somebody. The creators of the Maze couldn’t just sit around in their expensive suits or lab coats or togas or whatever and let Newt die. Newt was too good, too kind, too strong to die.

Minho’s outburst elicited alarmed murmuring from Gladers nearby, who had started to gather at the shouting.

“Shut your hole for a second, will ya?” Jeff raised his voice impatiently. To the growing crowd of boys, he said menacingly, “Whoever’s still near the Homestead after I count to ten will have to answer to Alby.”

Perhaps a testament to Alby’s leadership abilities (or his overall scariness), the crowd scattered almost immediately. Jeff turned to Minho.

“Look, slinthead,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll keep you updated, but you can’t hang around outside the Homestead all night. You’ll draw attention. Besides,” Jeff added, “Newt’s anesthetized right now.  Sleeping the pain off.”

“I’m not leaving.” Minho responded flatly.

“I suppose not.” Jeff sighed. The door creaked closed, and Minho drew himself to his feet to get food for the Med-jacks.

* * *

 

1.

 _Pluck_.

Minho twisted the yellow petal in his fingers and watched as its juices dyed his fingers like jaundice.

Pluck.

Minho peeled the next petal in half. He tore the smaller pieces in half again and again until they became too small and he was forced to stop.

Pluck.

Minho threw the half-stripped bud on the ground next to the small bouquet he picked from the Deadheads earlier and dug his palms into his closed eyelids.

The Glade looked like it usually did at night. Alby had left Newt in the Homestead hours ago to help Nick put the Glade back into order. Most of the boys were gathered outside, spreading their sleeping bags out. But Newt wasn’t there, and it was wrong. Minho felt as if his world was falling and tilting. A Glade without Newt would be worse than hell. Until then, Minho hadn’t realized how much his existence, his ability to stay grounded, relied on the boy.

Now, the hollow shell of a life without Newt flickered in front of him, threatening him with its gray texture.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

Minho whipped his head up at the unexpected voice to see Dave the Newbie. The younger boy flinched, and Minho tried to compose his expression into something hopefully less terrifying. It probably didn’t work, but Dave seemed to have gotten over whatever fear of Minho he had because he sat on the porch steps next to Minho.

When Minho shrugged, Dave looked pained and sympathetic.

“Are those for him?” The Newbie asked, looking at the flowers on the ground in front of them.

Minho shrugged again, and Dave had the sense not to speak any more, though he didn’t leave either.

What could have been seconds or hours later, the door of the Homestead creaked open, and Clint’s head poked out.

“We have a policy of no visitors, ya know,” he said to Minho and Dave. “No loitering, either.” The Newbie sprung up as if burned by the wooden step he sat on. Before Clint could continue and try to order Minho away, Minho’s hands were on the front of his shirt, pulling Clint up to his greater height.

“How is he?” Minho demanded, ignoring Dave’s surprised shout of protest.

“Come in and see, then.” Clint replied impatiently, unaffected by the grip around his shirt collar. “He’s awake. He’ll live.”

Minho felt color return to his world as he let go of the Med-jack. As he turned to follow Clint into the Homestead, Dave called out.

“Wait! You forgot these.” The Greenie held out the small banquet of flowers, his face mirroring Minho’s relief, though it could never have been as acute. Minho hesitated before taking them. Trying to get into Newt’s pants was the last thing on his mind at the moment, but Minho didn’t want to waste time arguing with the kid over a bunch of flowers. “He’ll be okay.” Dave added, and Minho managed the composure to scoff in response. He didn’t dwell on the look of admiration that Dave was giving him.

Flowers in hand, Minho entered the Homestead.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. We know for sure he’ll live, but we’re not sure how well his leg will heal.” Clint explained as they made their way through the narrow hallways of the house. “We don’t have the supplies or medical knowledge to fix him up completely.” He continued, “Of course, Newt can’t be a Runner anymore. I’ll request a set of crutches, but I doubt we’ll get them.” The Gladers rarely got medical supplies other than bandages, rubbing alcohol, and the Serum.

“I’ll take care of him.” Minho gritted out. There it was again—his utterly, maddeningly useless anger at the Creators. From what he remembered from the outside world, a broken leg wasn’t supposed to cripple someone for the rest of their life. All that was needed was a proper cast or splint or something, not whatever Clint and Jeff improvised for Newt. But Minho didn’t have time to dwell on the Creators, because they reached the door to the room Minho recognized as the one he once waited in with a black eye and bloody mouth.

Before Minho could kick open the door and burst into the room like his instinct told him to, Clint knocked on the dark, slightly peeling wood.

“Did you bring me some bloody water?” The words were right, but the tone was wrong. Even muffled by the door, it was clear Newt’s voice had lost something. A vibrance was missing; the tone felt hollow.

“Minho wants to see you.” Clint replied.

“Tell him I’m asleep.”

“I’m right here,” Minho said angrily to the door. Newt’s words stung. “And I’m coming in.” Then, ignoring Clint, he shoved open the door.

He must have overestimated the force he needed to get the door open because it slammed against the wall with a crack.

Newt was sitting up in the cot with a heavily bandaged leg elevated by a pillow and back propped up by another. He could make out the outline of the sanded-down building wood that must have been used as a splint. There were isolated bandages on Newt’s arms and other leg, and Minho was reminded ludicrously of a half-wrapped mummy. Newt’s face, though free of bandages, was unusually pale, and his expression was strained with pain.

“What happened?” Minho demanded, unable to keep the accusing tone out of his voice.

“Minho—” Newt sat up higher. Clint snapped at Newt to not move.

“Alby wouldn’t tell me anything, the slinthead.”

“It was an accident, Minho. It won’t happen again.” Newt’s hands were shaking on the covers tangled around his good leg.  Those slender fingers crossed and uncrossed clumsily. Feeling his previous anger evaporate, Minho took Newt’s hands into his own and rubbed comfortingly at the alarmingly cold, pale skin. Minho wanted to envelope Newt in his arms and cover that lovely, lean body with his own, but Newt looked too fragile—physically and emotionally. It felt like too strong a movement would break him into millions of irreparable pieces. Minho forced his next words to be gentle, yet firm.

“How do you know? A Griever could attack at any—”

“Do I look like I’ve gone through the Changing? It wasn’t a bloody Griever.” Newt looked frightened now, like a trapped animal, and his color was pale but on the normal side. Minho’s breath seized up, and it felt like something covered in thorns was digging into his chest, puncturing his lungs. As if feeling cornered, Newt glanced around the room. His quick brown eyes spotted Clint, but instead of asking the Med-jack to kick Minho out, he asked his caretaker, “Could you leave us? I need to talk to Minho alone.” At Clint’s hesitation, Newt promised, “I’ll yell if I need you.” Minho received a reproachful look from the Med-jack.

“What happened?” Minho repeated the question when the door closed and the Clint’s footsteps faded away. He stepped closer to Newt and placed his hand on the knee of the leg not in a splint. “You can tell me.” Minho suspected Newt’s injury was no accident, but the alternative seemed too horrific to be true.

“You deserve the truth.” Newt agreed, and suddenly Minho felt sick.

“No, I don’t care what I deserve. When has shucking deserving things ever gotten us anywhere?”

Newt ignored the question, choosing to watch Minho with large, sad eyes. “I was trying to get out of here.” He said, gesturing around himself as if it made the words more clear. “Out of the Glade. The Maze.”

“What do you mean?” Minho responded desperately. “You’re a Runner. That’s your job.” Even as he asked the question, Minho knew the answer.

“Please, Minho,” Newt avoided Minho’s gaze. He sounded more pained than any of the boys Minho had seen going through the Changing. “You know that’s not the only way to leave.”

“You got hurt on purpose.” Minho choked on the hateful words. The agonizing conclusion was inevitable now. “No, you weren’t just trying to get hurt.” _You were trying to die._

“Yes,” Newt breathed, his beautiful brown eyes wide and scared as he waited for Minho’s reaction. “I’m sorry.”

The confirmation was like a physical blow. A black cloud closed on Minho, blinding him like dust in a desert storm. He felt a stab of pain in his knees and a distant part of his mind registered that he must have fallen onto them.

“I’m so sorry, Minho!” Newt repeated, voice high and desperate. A hand was threading through Minho’s hair, stroking it comfortingly in a way Minho didn’t deserve. “I don’t expect you to understand. I’m sorry. Please get up.”

Newt’s hands were then on Minho’s shoulders, tugging him towards the bed. He supposed Newt didn’t have the leverage, much less the strength, to try to pull him to his feet. Minho heard the shifting of sheets on the bed and opened his eyes (When had he closed them?) when he heard Newt wince. “Don’t move.” He commanded. Without getting to his feet, Minho shifted forward and wrapped his arms around Newt’s narrow waist, leaning forward to rest his head on Newt’s lap. Newt felt reassuringly warm, alive in his arms. Yet this life was so very fragile. Minho traced his fingers up the ridges of Newt’s spine.  Newt laced his fingers into Minho’s hair again, and they sat together like that for what felt like eternity. Indeed, Minho would have stayed like that forever with Newt, if he didn’t hear an almost imperceptible sniffle from above.

“I’m shucking useless now.” Newt whispered. “I can’t run. I’ll just drag the Glade down.”

“That’s a load of klunk, and you know it.” Minho murmured, bringing himself even closer. His chest rested against Newt’s thighs. He wished he had Alby’s skill of being stern yet comforting that worked so well with Newbies. Then again, the beautiful boy above him was as far as one could get from a Greenie.

Minho tilted his head up to kiss the corner of Newt’s mouth, where a tear had slipped down.  Newt shook his head, and something in his eyes made Minho let the subject drop.

“Come up.” Newt said, shifting over on the bed gingerly. He tugged on Minho’s shoulders when he hesitated.

It was a relief to get off the ground, though Minho could already hear Clint telling him off. He pulled Newt’s back against his chest and stroked the smooth softness of Newt’s cheek before tangling his fingers in soft, golden hair, afraid to move lower where bandages covered. He relished the sigh his touch drew from the other boy.  Then, he felt the head under his fingers tilt to the side.

“Are those flowers? For me?” Minho noted with disproportionate elation that Newt’s disbelieving voice took on his usual sweet tone. He broke the circle of Minho’s embrace to lean eagerly towards the corner of the bed. It ripped up Minho’s heart how much Newt looked like a little kid who had just remembered his birthday.  He wondered idly when Newt’s birthday actually was and decided it was probably in the summer. Even broken, Newt emanated light and warmth. Though he didn’t remember experiencing them in his life, Minho missed the seasons.

He followed Newt’s gaze to the small drawer serving as a bedside table, on which Minho—or maybe Clint—had set the flowers.

“Yeah. Always for you.” Minho tugged Newt back into his arms, not wanting either of them to move. It felt like something was resolved—or at least laid out in the open—between the two of them. For the first time, Minho didn’t want Newt to have the flowers just yet. Fortunately for him, a kiss was enough to distract Newt.

In the next few minutes, Newt only pulled away once. It was just barely: he was still so close that Minho could feel his breath against his lips as Newt murmured the words.

“They’re beautiful.”

 


End file.
